The Secret Compartment
by Morta's Priest
Summary: This serves as a repository for plotbunnies, little ideas that went nowhere, or potential starts for future stories. Depending on interest, I might write sequel chapters as well to anything covered here. Will span multiple fandoms including my mainstays (HP, Naruto, Avengers) as well as new ones. (Doctor Who, Stargate etc.) and crossovers thereof.
1. HP & Skyrim - Dragon's Grasp 1

**Dragon's Grasp **

Harry Potter / Skyrim

_Harry Potter and Tamriel cross in a story that deals with the disappearance of the Dovahkiin, and the subsequent summoning of anyone who could help end the blight on Tamriel. Harry ends up rather unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the coldest part of Skyrim, and it would subsequently lead to his temporary stay at Winterhold and involvement in some canon event. He would be more than a little talented at the local magic system._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Spirits in the Snow**

Before the birth of men, the Dragons ruled all. Their word was the Voice, and they spoke only for True Needs, for the Voice could blot out the sky and flood the land with its power. Men were born and spread over the face of the world, and the Dragons presided over the crawling masses. Men were weak then, and had no Voice, though their spirits were strong.

These men were unafraid to war with the great beasts and their Voices, but the Dragons shouted them down and broke their hearts, and they despaired over the future under this terrible rule. The Goddess Kynareth called upon Paarthurnax, the Dragon who pitied these men, and they together taught men to use the Voice.

The war raged for an age, Dragon against Tongue, the origin of the Voice against the humans who wielded its awesome power. Man ultimately prevailed, shouting Alduin out of the world. With their victory they proved for all that their Voice too was strong, and with roaring Tongues, the Sky-Children conquered, founding the First Empire with Sword and Voice. The Dragons withdrew from the world.

For a time.

Under a darkened sky, dark wings unfurled once more and spanned the sky. Roars reverberated across the land, thundering deep into the soil itself and outwards towards the seas. The great Dragons, gone for millennia, returned from their exile, and their might was undiminished. The greatest among them, Alduin the World-Eater, came to take back what he claimed for himself, his gaze ever judgmental. His massive claws were larger than a man, rending stone and flesh, and from its monstrous maw poured terror and flame, enough to melt courage and mighty wall.

High upon the mountains, the Tongues answered the threat.

Grey-bearded and silent, for their every word could kill, the greatest wielders of the Voice were helpless against the sheer power of the renewed armies, called back into the present by their ancient leader. From the distant west to the burned remnants of the great isle Vvardenfell, a call went out from the peak, thundering through valleys and little city streets. It was a call for those who could stand and fight, who could end the apocalypse, a call for heroes.

Many answered the promise of violence and reward, and they came from all corners of Tamriel. Thieves who desired the spoils, grizzled warriors with more scars than unblemished skin, great mages of renown that wielded their spells as weapons of war. In the great clash between human factions that had long since divided the nation, a new conflict arose – a new war. Among the many who came to Skyrim to test their mettle, there walked another. A distant heir of Tiber Septim, perhaps. Few knew his face, but all knew his title, for he wielded the Voice like no other. He slew and butchered like a man possessed, leaving nothing but crumbling bones behind when the great Dragons fell from the sky at the end of his blade.

_Dovahkiin. _The Dragonborn.

Yet, three months after his appearance, the Dragonborn vanished from the world. Whiterun was ravaged by the monster that followed him there, but the mighty hero did not come to slay it, and it took all the guardsmen in unison to drive the beast off. The Jarl sent men to find their hero, but none knew where he had gone, save that he did not go willingly, for his sword and shield remained in Whiterun. Many claimed to have seen him in the wild, but it had been months since the Dragonborn had slain his eternal enemies, since the Voice had buffeted across the plains from a human throat.

In the wake of the hero's loss, the Dragons crossed the mountains of Skyrim, and set alight the distant lands of Hammerfell and Morrowind, incinerating great swathes. The Red Mountain was burning again, resurrected by fell magic, and its clouds covered half the continent, blanketing out the sun. The great cities of all the lands were barricaded, and few dared to leave on their own into the wild. The Dragons were everywhere.

The last gamble was made. The dice rolled for a final time. The wizards gathered together, pooling their might, a great beacon still than that of the men on the mountain. Magic surged into the sky, brighter than the sun. Within minutes, the clearing would be gone, turned to glass under a Dragon's fiery breath.

But the beacon would be seen.

* * *

The icy cold grasped him tight, biting straight through thin clothes until it seeped into his bones. It was a harsh kind of cold, far worse than any he had ever experienced in England or Scotland; it felt as if a hundred Dementors were near, sucking all the life and warmth out of everything with not the slightest pity. The ice underfoot was thick and unyielding, betraying that this place only saw the warmth of summer very rarely, and now it was the heart of winter.

Harry Potter trudged on with single-minded fury, away from the cold ocean. He was desperately glad to be dry as he kept himself going into the cold night, even as it seemed intent on freezing him to death. He knew that to stop was to die. The stars blinked lazily overhead, amidst vast bands of colour which spanned from horizon to horizon, changing and moving as he watched. The Aurora, the Northern Lights – he had heard of them before, but it was very hard to care about that right now, however beautiful they were. He rubbed his fingers together, fearing the very real danger of frostbite as he once again tucked them into the relative warmth of his robe.

His breath came in short gasps, uneven. He had fallen more than once already, and was covered in nicks and scratches, and the cold air seemed to rake along his throat as it went in. He had gotten up every time, kept breathing, despite his body wanting to just lie down and die. His glasses had been left behind hours ago, frozen up and shattered, and even the small flask of firewhiskey that he had in his backpack had long run out. The backpack itself, too heavy and bulky to drag along, now lay somewhere miles away in the snow. He had taken what he could from it, and walked.

The harsh lands that he trudged across were strange to him, and he wondered what had happened to bring him here, to this forsaken place. The last he remembered he was sitting on the train to London, returning from a much-needed vacation, his backpack on the seat next to him as he patiently waited to cross the channel through the tunnel. He had nodded off, and had woken to cold. To endless frost.

Harry was wearing three layers of clothing, now; everything he had with him on his vacation trip. He looked ridiculous, and the clothes for a warm vacation were all too thin in the cold of winter. Over two layers of Muggle clothing he wore his robe, which covered most of his body, but it was deceptively thin. If he met anyone, he would need to make up an explanation for his clothing, but it beat freezing. Cold snow itself wormed itself between the layers of cloth still, and he could practically feel the remnant of warmth escaping from the gaps.

For the fourth time in an hour, Harry reached for the wand in his inner pocket, buried near his chest as he was terrified of it freezing and breaking like everything else, and he tapped his skin. The elementary warming spell fizzled at the end of the wand, producing no more than a few yellowish sparks and a slight crackle. Nothing. Again. Magic failed to obey.

"Where the hell am I?" Harry asked himself. His voice was ragged and harsh, and he winced at the sound before he clamped his mouth closed again. Talking was uncomfortable, painful even. He looked around, but with some relief he found no familiar faces. He shook his head, grimacing.

He needed shelter. If he stayed in this storm for much longer, all anyone would ever find was an ice statue, a corpse. He had tried apparating, but that had failed just like his spells did, and his wand stubbornly refused to point to safety. He had no choice but to walk into the white, heading for his approximation of the south, on the vague assumption that he was in the far north. There was nothing here to identify the place, only tall hills dotted with snow-covered evergreens that looked out over frozen lakes and gullies. There were no buildings or roads, nor any sign that anyone ever came here at all. He might as well have been stranded on the pole.

Worse than the cold, though, were the hallucinations. They had started quickly, when the cold really took hold of him and started to fog up his mind as it tried to process the shock. First came Ron, who walked next to him in the snow wearing his mum's thick woolen jumper, and a big hat with warm-looking flaps to cover his ears. He kept pointing out the thunder-clouds that were at the horizon, and chatted enthusiastically about the latest Quidditch victory in an attempt to keep Harry distracted. In truth, it had worked. Harry had kept going by focusing on the Weasley's ire at the opposing Chasers, setting one foot ahead of the other as he tried to imagine the sport scenarios presented to him. When he finally realized that he had arrived alone, that Ron could not be there, the redhead had already vanished like a snowdrift.

Two hours. Two hours he had walked by his lonesome, completely convinced that Ron had joined his trek south, keeping him company. It was a little disturbing to realize that he honestly wanted to the image back, even if it was fake, since it had kept him going, kept him from focusing on the pain that was working its way into his bones. He was certain he would have frozen to death long ago, even with three layers of clothes, but what was left of his magic – even if it did not want to channel through his wand – was keeping him alive, prevented him from collapse. If he gave up, he was sure that it would too.

He needed the illusion of company.

The hallucinations grew worse after that, when he no longer cared about whether or not they were real, but only that they were there. Hermione appeared briefly, looking at him with worry, and so did Ginny – when Harry tried to grasp her hand, she shattered. Perhaps he should not have been surprised. The image that stayed longest was, oddly enough, Luna Lovegood. She urged him on with tales of Blibbering Humdingers and other nonsense creatures, and she had full-sized radishes hanging from her ears, which looked rather amusing. She promised him she would stick with him, though even she departed in the end, blown away in a gust of frosty wind.

While crossing ice flows and jagged ice that had frozen back together in strange formations, Harry had finally gone from seeing vague images, even people, into full-on hallucinations brought on by the cold. He was delirious, and still sane enough to realize it. The ice vanished, and he walked through a cold and dank hallway, unlit and terrifying. Irrational dread crept up on him, and he was suddenly convinced that Snape's Occlumency lessons waited at the end of the hall, unpleasant as ever. He was on his way to another session of pain and embarrassment, another torture session disguised as teaching. The hook-nosed professor sneered at him from the room at the hall, preparing his potions over an open fire; Harry had warmed his hands at the flames, ignoring the figure outright.

Warmth surrounded him. _Warmth_, after all this time. Yet, he knew rationally that the fire had not been real. Like Snape, it was a figment of his imagination. So why was he getting warm? With a shiver of recognition, Harry pressed on, quicker than before, his eyes peeled for any sign of rescue. He knew the contradiction as a sign of hypothermia – and that meant he did not have long.

"Hello again, Harry."

Harry twitched at the voice, but did not stop. A shape from his past formed besides him, coalescing from fluttering snow and the clouds of breath that Harry puffed out on every step. He knew who it was, who it had been all along, watching from a distance while his friends joined him in his trek, imaginary or not.

Lord Voldemort.

Instead of the snake-faced abomination that had died at the end of his wand in the Great Hall, this spectre of his mind looked younger, far younger. Perhaps Harry's own age, fresh out of Hogwarts, he was Tom Riddle as he had once been. His wavy black hair remained undisturbed even in the cold wind, and he had his hands in the pockets of an expensive dress robe; the expression on his face was as haughty and proud as ever, though it lost some of its potency without the blood-red eyes. He remembered this vision from the Chamber of Secrets, so long ago.

"What do you want, Tom?" Harry asked softly, spitting the man's name like a curse. The echo merely smiled, unconcerned with the use of his true name, unlike his real counterpart. "Why are you the one that keeps coming back?" he continued, annoyed. "Why does it have to be the mouthy bastard with a superiority complex that keeps following me? Why _you?_"

"There is no need to be uncouth," Tom said silkily, raising an eyebrow. "You should really consider going inside, you know. I believe the cold is getting to you."

"No shit. I don't have much of a choice, do I?" Harry snapped back, and he winced at the biting cold as it attempted to work its way in between his teeth. He licked his lips carefully, knowing that they had turned pale blue ages ago, and were probably beyond saving. "What would a dead man know about it anyway," he said through clenched teeth. "Much less a spectre of my own making?"

The wind howled, and for a time neither could hear the other over the gale. Harry trudged on, and Tom followed, unconcerned by all that went around him. When at last the worst of the storm faded, the erstwhile Dark Lord spoke again. "It seems we'll both share the distinction of being dead men, in the near future." He looked around calmly, frowning in distaste. "It will be less dramatic than my own demise, don't you think? I remember that day very clearly, you know. A basilisk's tooth makes for a formidable weapon, contrary to my every expectation."

"Right. You're the one I destroyed in second year_,_" Harry said. "You're not real, you're just what my mind comes up with when it's going nuts." He winced. "It figures you'd still be an ass, even when it's my brain coming up with it."

"Maybe i'm a mirage, maybe I'm more. Who says that the things you see have no truth within them? Dreams are figments too - but they can tell us many things." Tom seemed curious, linking his hands behind his back as he walked. "So many shades came for you, reflections of yourself. Have you seen through that yet, or do I have to enlighten you?"

"What?"

Tom sighed tiredly. "You truly did not care to expand your horizons while in Hogwarts, did you? I speak of the Weasley boy, the girl with the books, little Ginevra... I saw them all, you know. Each of them came to you and disappeared again, back into the ether. Did you think that you just happened to imagine those people, lucky hallucinations of a dying mind?" Tom shrugged. "They're what drives you, or representatives of what drives you. That's what I think. Conjured into being by your magic, constrained as it is."

"And you're an authority on how hallucinations work, figment?" Harry asked. "Don't make me laugh, monster."

"Such petty insults. If I am you, you merely insult yourself. _Think_. You see things that keep you going in this miasma. You see the reasons that keep you from stopping and falling asleep, that keep you in motion." He sneered. "The Weasley boy is friendship, no doubt. You're pathetic enough to value that, it seems."

"Friendship?"

Tom scoffed. "I am not _blind_, Potter, you spoke of nonsense for so long, and one could only tolerate that from someone who one respected. The girl with the radishes, did she symbolize loyalty, perhaps?"

Harry thought back to Luna, and her selfless decision to join him in saving Sirius from the Ministry, knowing the danger. A bit airheaded and strange, she was unerringly loyal. She or Neville would certainly fit with that description.

"It's curious," Tom said, an eyebrow raised. "Ginevra represents love, of course, yet she was weak, gone in a moment."

"That's none of your business," Harry said then, scowling aside as he rubbed his stinging eyes.

"Trouble in paradise?" Tom inquired, still smiling. "Little Ginevra, so desperate for a penpal, who had a crush on you that was so enormous that she could not skip a day without reminding me, in excruciating detail. She was your bride-to-be, was she not?"

"Shut up." Harry looked away, frowning. "You talk about all these others, but what about yourself?" he asked sharply. "What the hell are you supposed to represent?"

The young Dark Lord smiled, his eyes shining. "Why, isn't that obvious? I would have thought you knew me well enough to take a stab at it. What would be any man's reason to keep going, to never give up without a fight against the cold hand of the reaper? I believe you know what I am. Your fear of death, of course."

Harry was silent for a time, narrowing his eyes as he glanced back to Tom, considering his suggestion. Finally he shook his head. "I went to you in the forest. I walked right up to certain death, to save the people I cared for. I would have sacrificed my life, permanently, had it been necessary. They were worth it." He frowned. "I don't _fear _death enough for the issue to be bothering me as much as you are. So, what are you, really?"

Tom shrugged. "You killed the older me in the end, I am aware. Or perhaps I killed myself, if not willingly. Of course, _this _me hasn't drawn breath since the day that dear Myrtle died." He grimaced as he looked away. "Foolish girl, that one. I would have killed someone that I actually hated, someone who was a thorn in my side, but she was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're still a monster, I see." Harry turned away, hoping beyond hope that the endless ice sheets would end soon, that a light would appear on the horizon.

The young Dark Lord smirked. "A monster, you say? What does that say about yourself, if some part of you is represented by what you despise? If I am not the fear of death, then what am I, do you think? What do I represent?"

"An enemy."

Tom chuckled. "So very limited in your imagination. Consider the fact that Albus Dumbledore, your great mentor, fails to make an appearance. He would be authority, I imagine, but you don't respect anyone in that position, do you? Not after Fudge, Scrimgeour, and what came after them. You distrust power, like your dear mentor before you. It is why he never chose to become the Minister." He shrugged. "Not even your parents make an appearance, although it is no surprise. What family would you live for, since all your relatives are dead or preferably forgotten? Knowledge and Love you already spurned. What remains?"

"I'm done with you," Harry said shortly. "Let me die in peace, if that's what's going to happen."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "_Think_, Harry Potter. If you have no reason to live, then why do you still walk? Why do you keep going, even as you tire? Friendship and Loyalty could only get you so far – yet I have been here all along. I was there when the Weasley boy came to you, and here I am still. All the way." His eyes burned with conviction. "_Tell me_."

Harry grimaced. "Why should I indulge a mirage like you? It would be just like me to imagine some bastard who tries to corrupt me, and give him your face."

"_Tell me." _Tom commanded, and there was something strange in his voice, then. Something hoarse and flighty. Nervousness, in _Tom Riddle?_

Harry blinked. "You... you don't know, do you? You've been filling my head with silly talk about what my various degrees of insanity represent, and you don't even know yourself?" He shivered clasping his hands together and blowing into them in an attempt to keep them warm. It also allowed him to look away, to focus on something else. "Boy, I've really gone off the deep end, now, haven't I?" he whispered to himself.

There was a silence for a time. Harry glanced at Tom on occasion; he was still there, a ghost among snowflakes, unbothered by all the issues of a tangible body. Heat still flashed through Harry's skin, a sick fluctuation, and he knew that he was slowly falling apart, that he was succumbing to hypothermia. Even as he realized that much, he searched for an answer to Tom's question, perhaps the last one he'd ever consider. Tom had seemed so desperate there, for a moment, as if he had lost his identity, his purpose. It seemed cruel to blame a reflection of himself for the crimes of Voldemort. Tom, this Tom, was part of him.

He had long since given up on finding safety, in truth. He was in the middle of nowhere, and the storm still blew around him without an end in sight, far into the distance. He knew that there was something else, something beyond life, so his fear of death had already left him, fleeing before his foreknowledge. All he could think of was his friends, the many people whose lives he had touched, the people that had been left behind. He did not know how he had come here, but if he was going to leave the hard way, he could live with that. His will to live was practically gone, eroded away by walking in terrible cold for far longer than any Muggle could, and yet he walked.

Something else was still there, pushing him forward. Something buried beneath all the external things that he had piled on top. He took in a short, breathless gasp, as understanding dawned - or flickered at the edge of perception.

"Tom."

The dark-haired figure glanced over, curious. He looked so unlike Voldemort now, with those sharp eyes that told of intelligence, rather than madness. "Yes?"

"Do you really fear death?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

Tom scoffed, and looked away. "You know the answer."

Harry shrugged. "I know you did when you were older, when you were the Dark Lord," he said carefully. "But... Is that how it started? Did you begin to make Horcruxes because you feared your death?"

"What else would be my reason?" Tom asked, but his expression betrayed curiosity.

"The Horcruxes changed you," Harry began slowly. "I know they did, because I've seen flashes of your middle-aged self, before everything went south. You were never a pleasant person, but after you started splitting your soul, things escalated. Perhaps more so than I expected."

"...Really?"

Harry nodded emphatically. "There is a reason why you are the _diary_ Horcrux, instead of any of the others, isn't there? You are the _first_. The original Horcrux." He paused, and a thin smile made its way onto his face. "You're the part of Voldemort that did not truly fear death to his core, not yet. That's what I think."

Tom sniffed. "Preposterous."

Harry smiled. "The first Horcrux was not to save yourself from death, was it? You were still young, what did you have to fear, really? You were confident, perhaps too much so - you made the diary because you had great plans." He shrugged wistfully. "Terrible, but great. And to fulfill those grand ideals, you needed insurance. Not because you feared death, but because it represented failure, because it would mean an end to your ambitions." He smiled. "You are the desire for life. The wish for _more_. You're instinct, and adventure!"

Tom sighed then, and genuinely smiled. It looked more natural than it had ever had. He nodded in confirmation, and then the ghostly image reached out, and his hand caught Harry's shoulder. Caught it, and pushed. Harry tumbled head over heel, incapable of stopping himself from the fall -

And rolled right into a long, ice-covered tunnel, covered with straw and rotting remnants of a camp.

"Good answer."


	2. Doctor Who & HP - Wizard in Time 1

**Wizard in Time**

Doctor Who / Harry Potter

_Summary : Chronicle of the travels of the Eleventh Doctor and Harry Potter, almost-eleven years old. Since he doesn't end up back at his birthday for quite a while, technically this is still his age as far as he or anyone else is concerned. With some similarities to recent canon DW stories, Harry's a bit of an enigma, recognizing the Doctor and the TARDIS, even though they never actually met before._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - The Odd One**

Have you ever thought what it would be like, to be a wanderer in the fourth dimension? To be an exile in the universe? If you could touch the alien sand and hear the cries of strange birds, and watch them wheel in another sky, would that satisfy you?

I'm not running away, you see, contrary to what you may think. This is one corner of one country on one continent on one planet that's a corner of a galaxy that's a corner of a universe that is forever growing and shrinking and creating and destroying and never remaining the same for a single millisecond, and there is so much, so much to see. It all goes so fast. I'm not running away from things, I am running to them, before they flare and fade forever.

Think you've seen it all? Think again. Outside those doors, there might be anything. New worlds, terrifying monsters, impossible things. And if you come with me... nothing will ever be the same again.

* * *

"Come now, Dudley-dear, it's only for a little while..." Aunt Petunia said carefully, glancing between her son and her husband, who was still coloured slightly puce, with his eyes narrowed as he moved with quick, jerking movements. "We will be back home soon, don't worry..."

"But _mum..._"

Harry Potter, almost eleven years old, sat silently near the door of the little cabin. He was staring out of a small and grimy window into the rainy evening beyond, trying to make out details by the flashes of lightning that crisscrossed through the sky every minute or two. He could vaguely see the boat in the distance, the means by which they had arrived to this little island in the middle of nowhere, bobbing violently on the roiling water. He could see the rain spattering off the glistening rocks as the thunder crackled overhead.

Happy birthday, indeed.

"Boy – get away from there, now!" Uncle Vernon waddled over and grabbed Harry by the arm, dragging him over to the corner near the fireplace and depositing him in a rickety chair. The flames in the hearth were sputtering softly as water made its way down the chimney a few drops at a time. "Don't bother Dudley with anything, either. We've had quite enough of your-" He cut himself off, murmuring under his breath as he turned away.

Uncle Vernon did not like him; Harry knew that well enough from living with the Dursleys for years - his dislike was not quite as viscerally hateful as Aunt Petunia could get, but it was no less persistent. This time was different, though, and he had no real idea why. A simple letter had come for him, and the whole family had gotten into an uproar, especially when more and more letters kept coming. Dudley did not understand it, he was certain of that, but Aunt Petunia certainly did. She looked _scared._

He looked over to the little window with a sigh, warming his hands by the fire. Perhaps here, out on a lonely rock, even those strange letters could not find him anymore. Today he would have another lonely birthday, ignored by the Dursleys and forgotten by everyone else, and there was nothing he could do about it.

The noise of the storm outside made it hard to concentrate on what happened inside, but Harry honestly had little interest in what Uncle Vernon was muttering about. He wanted to go back and watch the waves crash in, to see whether or not the boat they had come with would smash to little bits in the wind. leaving them without a way back to Privet Drive. The idea of the Dursleys having to swim to mainland made him smile a little, but he quickly wiped it away when Aunt Petunia gave him a foul look.

There was a strange feeling, then – an odd sort of vibration in the air, and Harry perked up in surprise. The sensation was _familiar_, but he didn't know from where. There was a groaning noise, though it was hard to pick out over the wind, and Harry saw his Aunt stiffen. Even Dudley paused eating his snacks when there was a slight thump outside the door. The buzzing feeling faded, but did not disappear entirely.

"Stay back, boy," Uncle Vernon mumbled to Harry as he grabbed hold of his gun, clasping his fingers around it until the knuckles turned white. "We aren't letting those – freaks – into our house!"

There was a knock at the door. Then another knock, and more - the pattern was surprisingly rhythmic, and Harry thought he recognized a little lullaby. It was silent for a moment, then someone looked into the little window. The newcomer had a wide-eyed face with a rather large chin. He looked at each inhabitant of the cabin in turn, grinning all the while. Lastly he focused on Harry, and for a moment there was something like a spark in the air between them. That sense of familiarity came back, and Harry got up from his chair, barely realizing it.

"Oy, could one of you open the door for me? It's wood – wood's always a problem," the man half-yelled, knocking again. He moved aside for a moment, and there was a buzzing from beyond the door. "Yes, I figured as much. Such an inconvenient limitation, too. Embarrassing. Maybe I should think about carrying an actual screwdriver, too."

Before he could rethink his plan, Harry stepped towards the door. He was pretty sure that his uncle wouldn't fire that gun, but he cringed and sped up as the first angered yells of his family erupted when they realized his intentions. He unlatched the deadbolt before they could reach him, and as the door swung open and a wave of cold and wet air streamed in, they all ran back towards the walls, as if a demon was on their heels. Harry stood his ground, curious, as the odd figure in the doorway wrung out his hair, quite literally, and dripped onto the cabin floor.

"Such terrible weather. It must be a Tuesday," the man muttered. "Sorry to barge in on you all like this, but since you're pretty much the only house in miles, and I hate to get my feet wet..." He pulled off his jacket and put it over an old chair next to the door as he took in Uncle Vernon, still holding his gun. "Would you put that down, please? Its terribly impolite to wave those things around, and it only leads to trouble."

"_We – don't – want – FREAKS," _Uncle Vernon burst out, glaring at the new arrival with his beady eyes. "We won't let him go to your weird school, you hear? I won't let him be taught by some ancient whackjob!"

"Hmmm?" The odd fellow raised his eyebrows. "Ah, I see. What we have here is a case of mistaken identity. I get that all the time, really. Being John Smith so many times, it does get a bit confusing..." He spun on the spot to face Harry. "Let me guess, he's talking about _you."_

"Um... Yes, sir..." Harry said carefully. "Who are you?"

"Ah! A good question. Not enough of those, I think. Most people are happy to ask the really silly ones, like 'Isn't the weather terrible?' or 'Why is the sky blue?'. Boring questions, boring answers." He bowed slightly to match heights. "As for my name... Well, call me the Doctor."

Harry blinked. "Just that?"

The man, apparently the Doctor, grinned and nodded. "Right you are. So, you're waiting for someone, seeing as your... father? No, definitely not, I doubt there's a blood relation there. Caretaker? The fellow with the gun, since he mistook me for someone else." He gestured over his shoulder. "So, who are you waiting for? Anyone interesting?" He dropped into the chair next to Harry, ignoring the Dursleys entirely. Uncle Vernon seemed uncertain of what to say to their new guest, staring at him while keeping a strong hold on his gun. "You look like you're, what, nine or ten years old? What's so important that you'd be out here? Surely you don't live here, with _these _people?"

"Ah... they're my relatives," Harry said slowly. He looked at the clock. "Also, I'm almost eleven."

The Doctor nodded soberly for a moment, then his smile was back. "By almost you mean tonight, don't you? Fantastic, I haven't celebrated a birthday in ages! Way too many of them to keep track, you know. Old people, it's how that works. By the way - you never told me your name, did you?"

"You don't know it? You're not one of _them, _are you?" Aunt Petunia asked, squeaking a little as she narrowed her eyes.

"Them?"

She glanced at Harry, and bit her lip. "From that school_?"_

The Doctor raised his hands. "Oh, no, I'm not a teacher – well, I have been in the past, but that was special." He smirked as he glanced back at Harry. "I wasn't quite myself at the time. Well, doubly not so, I suppose. It's complicated. Which leads me back to your name."

"I'm Harry Potter," Harry said slowly, and he saw the Doctor's eyes widen momentarily before he nodded in understanding.

"Why are you in this house?" Petunia demanded. "What - what do you want from us?"

"Oh, it's just happenstance, circumstance, fate," the Doctor said, gesturing carelessly towards the door. "I arrived just a few dozen meters from here, and usually there's a good reason for ending up someplace. I figured, since I've never been here before, and there's not a lot of things around, I might peek inside. See if there's any monsters, you know."

"...Sir? Doctor?" Harry said softly, tugging on the man's sleeve. "Do I know you? Do you know me?" He cocked his head to the side. "I swear..."

"Well, I don't think we've met," the Doctor answered, frowning. "Why?"

"It's..." He tried to articulate the strange quiver in the air, or the fact that he was completely relaxed now, even with the Dursleys right there. It was as if someone had come and plucked the nervousness out of the air and bottled it up. "You're _familiar_... I swear, I must have seen you before, but it's strange, I can't imagine when..."

The Doctor hummed under his breath, as he looked back at Petunia, and he stood up suddenly. "Finish what you were saying, please. Who are these 'them' you're referring to? Not humans, I take it?" Aunt Petunia's breath hitched, and the Doctor nodded. "Figures. So, what are they? Nothing particularly weird, I'm thinking, or there probably would be a few horns or tentacles. Harry here is one of the other species, I suppose?"

"Not – humans?" Harry squeaked nervously, glancing between the Doctor and Aunt Petunia. "What do you mean by that? What else is there?"

"Yes, he's one of _them_," Petunia spat with narrowed eyes. "Like his parents."

"Interesting," the Doctor mumbled as he glanced back at Harry, who had no idea what to say. "Looks human enough - but then, so do I. Well, technically you folks look like _me,_ temporally speaking, but that's irrelevant right now..." He frowned. "Could be that his looks are hidden away, I suppose, like those fish-folk in Venice..."

"Witches and sorcerers," Vernon hissed suddenly, narrowing his eyes. "Freaks and creeps, the lot of them! He's one of _those_. We didn't ask for him!"

The Doctor ignored the fuming man, staring at Petunia with raised eyebrows before turning to Harry. "That explains a few things. So you _are _human, just not quite. Slightly divergent subspecies, right? Capable of advanced manipulation of space-time through bio-energy, a surviving remnant of the long-lost Neanderthal civilization? I thought you fellows had gone extinct somewhere in the 17th century. I suppose some strains of their DNA might have endured, though. Marvellous!"

"We didn't choose to take him in." Petunia spat as she stared at Harry. "He was dropped on the doorstep by his - his _kind_. We already had a child, we didn't ask for another one, and certainly not one like that." She scowled, and Harry edged away. "Take him away from here."

"I'm sorry, I must have misunderstood..." the Doctor said, cocking his head to the side in confusion. "Did you just order me to take your - nephew, I assume? That's not a very familial thing to say, is it? Why, I would call it downright _not nice._"

Petunia shook her head sharply. "Leave, and take the freak with you." She gestured at Harry. "I've had enough of this insanity, and I don't need any new strangeness added to it. Take him away, and leave us alone." She stood up, gesturing to the door, which was still slightly open, her step uneven and her finger quivering in rage.

"Now, see here- " the Doctor began. "This is not how civil people-"

"Please...?" Harry said, unable to keep silent as he stared at the Doctor, unflappable, facing off against the Dursleys. The Doctor turned to him with a curious expression; Harry just looked at Aunt Petunia, on that hateful glint in her eye, and the gun in Vernon's hands. "Can I go with you? I won't be a problem, I promise."

The Doctor sighed. "You're ten year old- well,_ almost eleven_. I can't just drag you away from your family. I don't take children along anymore, since it's dangerous to go out there..." He suddenly looked decades older as he looked away. "People don't always come back, when they go with me."

"I don't care," Harry said strongly. "Please? I promise I'll cook and clean, and all the other stuff around the house..." He looked back at the Dursleys. "Just... can you take me away from here? As a birthday present, maybe? _Please?_" He marvelled at his own courage, and wondered where that had come from. Yes, he disliked the Dursleys, but to just go along with a stranger? Yet, even as he thought of them, a chill ran down his back. No, he definitely would not stay here if he had anything to say about it.

The Doctor's featured softened at Harry's pleading tone, and he nodded. "...For a little while, alright? I can just bring you back here, to this moment, just in case..." He sighed. "Come along, Potter. Before I change my mind."

Before the Dursleys could react, the Doctor strode back out into the rain, barely taking the time to acknowledge them again - Dudley was still just staring, and his parents were barely any more responsive. Harry hurried after him, shivering in the doorway for a moment. He looked back to his family, but he could honestly not say he was sorry to leave.

He grabbed the Doctor's jacket off the chair as he passed it, and left the warmth of the cabin for the windy outdoors. There was a blue box there, positioned right on the path down to the boat, and light streamed out from the entrance, warm and inviting. He rushed over to it, and was about to enter when the Doctor stopped him at the door.

"Ah, I knew I'd forgotten _something_," the Doctor exclaimed as he took his jacket. He looked back at the cabin; Uncle Vernon slammed the door closed. He sighed for a moment, then turned to Harry with a piercing gaze. "Are you sure you came because you want to go with me, or were you just fleeing from _those_ people? Which is understandable, given how unlikeable they are. I haven't told you anything, yet, so that's not an issue... I could put you with the right people, they would take care of you, like these people clearly didn't."

"Anywhere's better than here," Harry said quickly. He put his hand on the edge of the door to look inside, and his eyes went wide as images suddenly flashed before his eyes. He jerked his hand back, staring at it in confusion. "...It's called a TARDIS?"

The Doctor stared.

Harry shook his head as he stared at his hand. "...Weird."

"Curiouser and curiouser," the Doctor murmured, and then nodded decisively as he gazed speculatively at the almost-eleven-year old, taking a step back into the interior of the TARDIS. "Well, come in then. If you're going to be a passenger, you might as well help me out with the destination, right? There's all of time and space, every moment there ever was... where do you want to start?"

Harry followed, and blinked, eyes wide. "It's bigger - "

The door closed itself behind him.


	3. Iron Man - Tin Man 1

**Tin Man**

Iron Man

_Summary : My take on a post-Iron Man 3 scenario which incorporates a lot of comic nods and follows a somewhat familiar storyline into new places. Basically this is an exploration of Transhumanism as presented in Tony's story, though the comics never did get into this to any serious degree._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Past and Present**

Where is the line between man and machine? Where is the boundary between a person using the tools at his disposal, those tools controlling their user?

Few would argue that using a cell phone is going too far, but those same individuals would be appalled by the very idea of an implant that serves all the same functions. They shy away, reflexively, from the logical end-point of the ongoing process of amalgamation between cybernetic and organic.

I considered the possibility that the explanation was simply distress at the thought of undergoing surgery, fear of momentary pain. That idea fell by the wayside within seconds, as I knew well that many people were fond of letting doctors nip and tuck at them, and saw no real problem with it. They happily travel to shady barrooms filled with smoke to have a bearded old-timer etch ugly pictures into their skin, or puff up their drooping eyelids. These people would tolerate _lasers _in their _eyes _when they are fed up with glasses.

No, there is more at work than a simple primal revulsion of being cut. The answer is simultaneously simpler and more devious than what I imagined.

Though marvelously complicated, the mammalian brain is ultimately limited in its imagination, in the scope of its capability. Even the greatest genius is ultimately constrained by its design parameters - it constructs scenarios based on what it has observed, recombining and restructuring past experiences into novel patterns. On Earth, the Human brain is the most marvelous of them all, extremely good at what it does - and very poor at some things for which it is employed, far removed from the ancestral wilderness of Africa.

Among the oldest and strongest of these terrible traits is fear, having far outlived the primacy of its effectiveness, inducing wariness in a prey species that would otherwise grow lax. Today, in a safer age, the prehistoric impulse clouds thinking and prevents perfectly sane people from acting rationally. Furthermore, in the wake of losing our most pressing sources of fear, surviving in a society that is impossibly peaceful compared to any from ages past, humanity has invented new terrors to fill the mind.

Fear is influenced by our perceptions, by what we have experienced. Through that means, fear becomes ubiquitous, diffuse - and dangerous. A single bombing can strike a wave of feverish terror across a country, across the entire world, leaving everyone reeling. That reaction is not productive - it leads to knee-jerk reactions, not thought-out responses, and many of the most devious minds are all too aware of that failure of human cognition. They use fear to control.

Perhaps Loki was more right than I thought, when he accused humanity of craving subjugation. Not to people like him - but to the yoke of fear. It is familiar, an ancient companion, and the natural instinct to fight or flee is strong within us still.

For thousands of years, perhaps longer than that, people have funneled their fearful insecurities into the common consciousness, introduced patterns to the great horde to consume, after which they spread the meme from person to person. It happened verbally at first, or perhaps in crude sign languages, before it was transferred through texts, alleged to be delivered from on high, but truly written by people with a little more imagination, combining existing ideas in new ways. In recent times, there came radio, and television, and the endless collection of porn and cats and assorted knowledge, the Internet. New means of spreading the same messages, sharing fear and thereby diffusing it.

And through those means, ancient and invented terrors struck new roots in later ages, even into the current day. Through every hackneyed horror movie, terrible science-fiction flick, sober documentary on the terrors of the atom, common themes appeared, and they were subconsciously adopted.

Prime among them was one most relevant to these days - distilled from secret fears, a gestalt of thoughts scarcely forming a coherent argument, the idea was derived from a built-in pessimism about our own capability as builders, as creators. Maybe it even came from a misplaced sense that we ought not approach the realms of the divine. Fear had a name, now - Technology.

Technology was the enemy.

The idea of the cell phone implant broke into the core of what people considered to be their humanity, what media and the transmission of fear had instilled into them as the ideal. The distrust of technology was built upon ancient foundations, and the uncorrupted human ideal placed upon the highest pedestal. People envisioned biology fading to the background in favor of the implant's electrical wiles; they could accept replacement parts when biology failed, but drew an instinctual line there, warily observing those who would put aside what their body provided and replace it with technology, who would augment themselves willfully.

Machines were beheld with skeptical eyes, with the worried gaze of those who expect the neighbor's dog to snap at any moment, no matter how cuddly it might look - on the off chance that it was a wolf. Without realizing it, likely without comprehending their distaste, people reacted to their discomfort. They feared the death of humanity, the end of the ancient paradigm of what it meant to be, and that idea spread through the media, through the common consciousness.

The cyborg would be saved by the remnants of its humanity, the robot was either a breadbox or perfectly human; or at the very least intended on becoming such. The very concept of artificial intelligence, of human minds without a human body, became synonymous with treachery, with betrayal, with the loss of self. The machine took its place alongside the zombie and the vampire, a boogeyman for the new age.

Transhumanism became a whisper among intellectuals, in a world of the wary. Technology treading into our humanity, changing ourselves, breaking down the core of our being and rebuilding it. Ultimately, the fearful masses argue, what lies beyond human is _less_, not more.

Cybernetics eat your soul, and every Tin Man needs a heart.

That hypothesis can be tested.

* * *

"Who?"

"Who am-"

"Who am I?"

The wind whistled past at the speed of sound, and metal plating groaned. Slowly banking, a bright star veered off, followed by two fiery streaks of flame.

"Let's try playing some _Clues,_ shall we? Right now, about two miles behind me, there's two heavy-duty missiles painting me with microwaves, locking onto my radar signature," a breathless voice started. "A slipstream of freezing air is ripping past me at 104 Decibels. Meanwhile, a 9000-song playlist heavily skewed towards 80's metal is roaring at the same volume."

There were beeps of various alarms vying for attention and there was flickering red everywhere, flashing indicators with strong words of warning. Above them all blasted Black Sabbath.

"On my chest, a superconducting arc reactor is generating enough power to equal a small nuclear missile, funnelling enough electricity to my hands to power a decade-long concert by every band on my playlist - all at once." A chuckle. "And in my left hand is a Repulsor-emitter, requesting permission to unleash that very power."

A lance of lightning burst through the sky, a streak of hellfire that left only scraps in its way. One of the missiles fell, severed neatly in two; the second dodged in time, but only barely. It tumbled wildly before re-engaging.

"_Who am I?_ I'm Iron Man. I'm Tony Stark. Who else would I be?" A smirk. "Hell yes!"

Flipping backwards in a graceful movement, the repulsors fired to full, Tony reversed his direction, and the second missile missed by a long shot, forced to slowly turn around for another run.

_"Pardon me for interrupting your monologue, sir - but why are you talking to yourself_?" Jarvis piped up, as expected. _"Have you been drinking? You know quite well -"_

Tony muttered unkind things under his breath. "I am _recording, _Jarvis. Besides, didn't I turn you off?" There was a long pause, then, as Tony narrowed his eyes, and confusion struck. "...Wait, where am I? Why am I in the suit? Didn't I blow all these things to smithereens just yesterday? And - is this the Mark II? That's the one I gave to Rhodey_ - _it was scrapped when he got his new one!_"_

"Sir?"

Tony swallowed thickly, his eyes swerving from side to side, trying to read his displays, but they were garbled nonsense. "What's going on? Give me a map, Jarvis."

Silence.

"Jarvis! Give me a _map! _Where the hell am I?" Tony glanced down to the clouds, and rocketed towards them even as the last missile kept hot on his tail. "Don't tell me you're malfunctioning again! I just fixed you!"

"_Tony?"_

Tony strained against his suit as he ducked below the clouds. It seemed as if his heart stopped for a moment, and serene white was suddenly exchanged for red-tinted darkness as fires stretched as far as he could see, and clouds were suffused with ash, with acid that bit into the iron-gold alloy that coated him. Pain shot through his limbs as if the Iron Man armour was his skin - and quite suddenly it was, as it opened up and dropped him out without even a slight warning.

"Gah - I'll sell you for scrap metal!" Tony called as he flailed helplessly. He plummeted downwards - the wind rushed past him so quickly that he couldn't open his eyes, could barely take a breath, and his heart hammered loudly in his chest as he headed into fiery destruction, into a gaping maw of fire. Pain overtook everything as his skin was ripped to shreds and the ground approached far too quickly. Fire under his skin, a furious monster that would snap him up.

'I'm sorry, Pepper.'

"_Tony!"_

Reality returned with a shocking intensity that had him gasping aloud, and memory flooded back. He woke up with the deepest breath he had ever taken, his eyes roving wildly across the room as he reached for his chest, and one hand found bandages. Was it done? He glanced down with sleep-addled eyes to his chest, and he could no longer feel the slight hum of his Arc Reactor.

_Success!_

"I figured you'd never wake up," Pepper said softly, raising an eyebrow. "What was that just now, moaning my name? Please don't tell me you were dreaming about -"

Tony pushed himself up, ignoring the pain in his chest, and hugged her. She let out a surprised squawk, but then stilled. He just held her for a while, and sighed in relief.

It was done. Now came the _good _part.

* * *

"What do you think of silver, Jarvis? Sounds about right? I've thought of blue, but it seems like that combination would just be cribbing from Pete..." Tony said, frowning. "Maybe go for a bit more Roman influence, while I'm at it? Though giving a suit sculpted abs might be a big much..."

_"Red and silver? I have no opinion on the matter, but I daresay it is superior to Periwinkle and Orange-red, sir. Or the purple monstrosity that you suggested."_

"All the movie covers pull off the former, and purple's pretty good for stealth," Tony muttered. "You're implying I'd look stupid, aren't you? Well, _you _look stupid! Hah, take that! All wires and circuitry, not one handsome gob like my own. So there. You're ugly."

"_That was very mature behaviour, sir."_

"Hah, you'd better believe it!" Tony exclaimed. "Mental note: Rein in Jarvis' sarcasm a smidgen."

"_I think you know who to thank for that, sir."_

Colonel James Rhodes stepped into the garage with his hands in his pockets, shaking his head. "Are you arguing with your robot again? You know that it's bound to give a psychiatrist a field day if they ever found out, right?"

Tony scowled dangerously. "Jarvis is not a robot - he's an Artificial Intelligence. And no, we just had a disagreement. Which involved bickering. That happens in relationships, you know - and he's the one who has no sense of style, you can't blame me." Tony Stark, billionaire CEO of Stark Industries - a somewhat discredited technology company in the wake of its abandonment of weapon manufacture - sat up with a wince, shoving himself backwards from under his Camaro. He flipped up his welding helmet as he put aside his tools. "I'm figuring out how to spice up this beauty. Suggestions?"

"Gold and red are sort of your trademark," Rhodey mused. "Silver and red could work, I suppose, if you make sure not to make the red too bright. But that's not why I'm here. Don't distract me."

"In case you haven't noticed," Tony noted with some amusement, "It is you who distracted _me. _I'm building a car here, you know. Not a suit, just a _car. _It's not even a revolutionary one, either. " He paused, and winced. "Well, technically it's able to fly, so that would make it a little special, but you shouldn't tell Pepper that. She might get upset over it again."

Rhodey sighed, leaning against Tony's desk and picking up a paperweight that he lightly juggled as he studied his strung-out friend. "Tinkering aside, you're locking yourself away again, Tony. Granted, you don't actually seem to be dying like last time, so that's something, but your absence is starting to get noticed. Some people think you're still addled from the recent dust-up, and of course Pepper wouldn't mention it - she's glad with all the time you spend with her these days. You'll have to get out of seclusion at some point and rejoin the real world, though. It's not stopped turning just because you stopped Killian."

"Killian," Tony muttered. "Killian was a symptom." He wiped his forehead as he took a long gulp of water from a grimy flask. "Besides, I'd like to think that the _world _can get along on its own for a while without Iron Man. I'm not the only high-profile ass-kicker out there, you know." He removed his helmet, narrowing his eyes for a moment as he studied it. He distractedly ran a hand across his chest, no longer marred - or adorned - by a makeshift reactor. "Rogers' on top of things, and Bruce is moving mountains here in New York. Not literally, though I'm sure he could if you get him pissed." He smirked. "Doesn't the public have the _Iron Patriot, _anyway?"

"You're well aware I've been benched since the Extremis debacle," Rhodey said with a glare. "You might be locked up in here by your own volition, but you sure as hell wouldn't be _you_ if you didn't keep an eye on what's going on. With all the recriminations and the Mandarin plot coming unraveled, the Iron Patriot is just a lot of excess baggage at the moment. The Vice-President's fall is recounted in every tabloid on the planet, and half the time I get mentioned in the same breath..."

"Fair - but they didn't take your suit, did they?" Tony countered. "The army knows as well as I do that it's not going to behave around anyone else, not with all the new security systems that I put on the thing. You got time off, you still have the suit - try something new. A little vigilante heroism wouldn't look bad on you. Heck, you can even borrow the Iron Man identity, if you feel up to it. Zooming around, blasting the crap out of some A.I.M. goons that were left over... Should be fun."

Rhodey frowned. "Tempting as that is, I wasn't talking about superhero stuff at all," he answered. "I'm talking Tony Stark, not Iron Man. Getting along better with Pepper is great, but you've got a company to run, friends to meet, and you've steadfastly ignored them for weeks. Moving on from a lifestyle doesn't mean cutting all ties, Tony."

"I know that," Tony replied after a short time, letting out a deep sigh as he dropped into a chair, letting the heavy metal welding mask fall to the ground with a clang. "I thought I would take a breather after this whole Extremis stuff, you know. Getting a nanite infestation out of Pepper was bad enough - reprogramming it took three days and a month' supply of coffee, especially when I was building in a kill switch that would actually work. I'm still recovering, in fact."

"You could have taken your time," Rhodey pointed out.

"No, I couldn't," Tony snapped. "The risk would have been too high. Fury _and _the military knew what was going on by the end, especially when things started exploding, and they were well aware of the potential that Extremis had from seeing it in action. Busy as they were dealing with the repercussions of that last battle, I was allowed a reprieve - and I used it well. I imagine they didn't think I could do as much as I did in three days - or perhaps Fury did, and he let me have it as a gift." He frowned. "Extremis was ripe for the taking, Rhodey. Either the Army or S.H.I.E.L.D. would have jumped on figuring out how to turn it into a weapon they could use, if it was still around in a malleable form."

Rhodey sighed. "So... what did you do? I'm not going to like it, am I?"

Tony shrugged. "The destabilized form of Extremis that Killian used naturally decomposes with time, and the instability leads to overcooking of the most literal sort. Mine doesn't. I had to get Killian's version out of Pepper and kill it before anyone got the smart idea to take her in and figure out how Extremis ticks when it's still young." He tapped his chest. "It was that same nanite flood allowed the removal of the metal fragments near my heart, but the strain I created was obviously even more dangerous than the wild one, since it was stable. So I made sure to prevent tampering. By the time the feds knocked on my door, the last of my research notes were merrily burning in the grate."

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, nodding. "So, you destroyed Extremis before anyone could take a form that was actually useful. That is - surprisingly mature of you."

Tony shrugged. "Like the serum that created Steve, Extremis is too dangerous to be spread around willy-nilly. There's still a bunch of Enhanciles - that's the army's term for Killian's creations - but they're slowly burning up, incapable of adapting to the change. Unfortunately, the decay of their strain puts them beyond any help that even I could bring." He looked away. "They'll all be dead within a few years, if not months. The secrets of Extremis are destroying themselves, one by one. I'll be the last one who knows the details needed to recreate it."

"Probably not a bad thing," Rhodey admitted. "Still - what's that got to do with you holing up down here? It's been taken care of, right?"

"I figured I'd go back to basics. I told you that I met a kid when I was out and about, right?" Tony gestured vaguely. "He reminded me of myself at that age - precocious brat, sarcastic as hell. He got me on my feet after the mess at my Malibu home, and I paid him a little visit after things were over." He stood up, stretching. "I haven't felt as free as right then in _years._ For a while, I wasn't Stark Industries' CEO, or Iron Man, or any of the other things I usually take on my shoulders. Just a mechanic, tinkering with his toys." He smiled warmly. "So - I've been brainstorming on new directions, keeping my hands busy while I consider my next direction."

"Which is?"

"Achieving divinity and starting a cult - I hear it's good for cash," Tony said, smirking. "Nah, I was thinking that I'd put the company aside. They don't really need me in R&D these days, given that I'm unpredictable at the best of times, and I don't think it'll be relevant when I'm done with them anyway. I've been tinkering with something new, something that nobody else has - a little personal enhancement, if you will, rather than another suit."

"Personal enhancement-" Rhodey paused, narrowing his eyes. "That comparison with Captain America, that was intentional, wasn't it?" He glared daggers when he was met with a sheepish smile. "You infected yourself, didn't you? With Extremis?"

Stark rolled his eyes. "Well, yes. The only way to get my heart in working order was to have a way to heal the severe damage the operation would do to the area. I needed the regenerative properties that the Extremis nano-flood delivered, or I'd just have been out of the loop for weeks or months - or I'd be dead. You know that."

"You built in a kill switch, though," Rhodey observed. "You changed Pepper's dose so it could be removed, and she's fine." He frowned. "Tony - did you hit that switch in yourself? Did you actually kill them?"

"Ah, Rhodey..." Tony whined. "Not - technically."

Rhodey sprang up. "You crazy son-of-a- "

"It's _fine,_" Tony gestured quickly, nervously glancing to the door. "I don't have the flaming crazy guy strain, clearly, so I'm not in trouble like Pepper was." He turned away from Rhodey's doubtful gaze. "Truth is, I changed the Extremis to serve my needs, my specifications, when I was figuring out how to remove it, how to use it for myself. I turned the programming in her strain to something I could control, and extracted the dose. That was the batch that served as a template for the ones that were used to fix myself." He smirked. "I was going to shut them down after the operation, but..."

"But what?"

"I changed them, Rhodey_. I did. _Not some government institution I couldn't trust, nor Killian's people, who never quite understood how it worked. It was me - I fixed them during a three-day engineering high that is mostly a blur to me now." He grimaced slightly. "I don't actually have any idea what I did to the things, beyond the very basics. I got them out of Pepper, and I got them to repair me after the operation - but they're way too complex for that to be their only function, they're way too sophisticated." He rolled his eyes. "I have my suspicions that I figured out the workings on day one, but then I was on such a roll that I couldn't stop. My thoughts were rather sentimental and dreamy, as I recall, and there's nothing quite like imagination to get my creative drive going - so I'm pretty sure I did some pretty nifty stuff. I customized Extremis - and it's still at work. I don't know what would happen if I interrupted its activity. It's not done with me."

"What the hell, Tony?" Rhodey snapped. "Didn't you endanger your life _enough? _What will Pepper think - "

"She knows."

"_What?_"

"I told her all about it," Tony admitted. "I'm not the same person anymore, Rhodey. She asked what I had done to myself, and I answered. That was the day of the operation. I told her everything I knew about the nanites - how they rewrite the repair centre of the brain, making the brain alter qualities of the body according to its new plan. Extremis fills up a place in the brain that's unconnected, that's blank - like empty canvas. She was utterly unsurprised that I scribbled on it. I think she's used to this by now."

"You're completely crazy," Rhodey noted dryly. "You're keeping yourself hidden because you don't know what you did to yourself. You have no idea if you're liable to sprout a tail or breathe fire from one moment to the next, right? Only you, Tony." He shook his head. "Only you."

"Why is laying low so bad, anyway?" Tony asked. "This Extremis thing - it'll just be another quirk, when I figure it out. It's not like I'd build in anything that would harm me."

"Like that arc reactor that was killing you a few years back?" Rhodey inquired.

"That was different," Tony parried. "I did that one out of necessity, and it's gone, now. This was voluntary - even if I can't quite recall what I did." He paused for a long time. "There's a whole new me after what happened in New York, and with the Mandarin. I'm still dragging along bad news from the past with me, though. Bad history. I might've blown up my suits, but they were only a symptom, weren't they? So - if I'm right, I think I altered Extremis so that it could fix a few bad things that I was still carrying along, that were still hardwired into me." He shrugged. "It's given me the clarity I needed to go through with my plans, anyway. I figured if I can trust myself even when I can't remember what I was doing, I can trust myself at any time."

Rhodey started. "What more than _this _are you planning, Tony?"

Tony smiled thinly. "Stark Industries is floundering, and we both know that it won't last for much longer in the current economic climate," he began. "We could have picked a better time to break away from military contracts, but you know my reasons. The company still has a reputation for dealing arms, which means very few people outside military sources really trust it, and the current economy leads people to trustworthy investments . We're not among those."

"So?"

"Rhodey - most of our money is tied up in contracts and agreements, which means that the company has _obligations_ that I don't care for, but can't actually just stop. We can't really start new things without getting into a row with our shareholders, and we don't produce what our old 'friends' want." He gestured to his desk. "I've got the numbers there, somewhere. We're bleeding out."

"Aren't you turning a profit?" Rhodey inquired, frowning.

Tony shrugged. "A very slight one, yes, but not for long. The crux is, I won't make the weapons our old customers want, and the stuff I do want to make I don't really want to sell to them anyway. New markets remain out of reach due to the history of my company and my father's decisions. In short, Howard Stark is holding me back." He leaned forward, his eyes shining. "Tony Stark, however, remains as popular as ever with the media."

Rhodey slowly looked up. "Tony, you're not saying-"

Tony nodded shortly. "My father would appreciate the logic, I think. It's time that my dear old dad's company made way for something new. We'll have to go practically bankrupt before I can pull off a trick like this convincingly, without tipping off every contractor and getting a lot of people pissed at me. If I start signing off on losses, or withdraw from contracts that are nearing their renewal dates, it'll probably get the ball rolling. It's a snowball effect - Stark Industries will destroy itself. Just as planned."

Rhodey sat down and frowned. "You _want _to go broke?"

"_Yes," _Tony agreed. "If I drain the company dry, and make sure that the personal fortune I gathered from non-military applications remains well away from the collapse, it won't take much more than a year to end matters. My seclusion would certainly help the illusion. Then - when it looks like Stark Industries is dead, I make my grand reappearance. I'll show the public my intent to build a new company, one that forgoes weapons technology from the outset, focusing on green energy and advanced aerospace technology. All civilian. I think I'll call it _Stark Resilient."_

"You're crazy." Rhodey shook his head, sighing. "Have you been drinking again?"

"Well, yes," Tony admitted. "But only a little. In any case, I'll be the richest person in America again within a year, I think - since nobody else can even get close to building a power source that can run a car indefinitely, and I can rig an arc reactor to destroy its own workings if tampered with, which would make it a viable energy source. I'll have every energy company in the country gunning for me - but I'll have an Iron Man suit ready. They won't get me easily." He twitched, and a glove soared through the room, attaching itself easily to the raised hand with a click, and a soft hum signified the activation of its repulsor. "I would put the seed money gathered from my Iron Man appearances into the company alongside my personal cash, and hire Pepper as the CEO. I'd like you to be a test pilot - with your own suits, free of charge, of course. I'd buy you out of the army."

Rhodey sighed. "You're serious. You're actually serious about this, aren't you? You want to go broke, then earn it all back - for what? Symbolism?"

Tony shook his head. "Rhodey - most of the Stark money is from military contracts, I can't change that. Although the majority of my own cash is from side-projects, I can't really start over while I'm still dragging the past with me. So - I'll let Hammer fight with whoever else is out there over contracts on guns, and then overshadow him in a far better market." He shrugged. "New me, new company. I won't have a penny of blood money invested into it."

"You've really changed," Rhodey said slowly. "Granted, you gutted the weapons out already, but a few years ago you would have not even thought of this, since it's your father's company..."

"I know, I know. Blame Pepper. Now, I do intend to make some agreements with S.H.I.E.L.D. so they know where I stand, and then I'll start destroying my own holdings this evening. Pepper's shown some enthusiasm for messing with rich bankers and destroying private property." Tony smirked. "I should go call Bruce. He'll want in."

"Do I at least get free coffee?" Rhodey asked wearily.

"And world-class dental."

Rhodey slumped. "Of course I'm in, you idiot. Someone needs to make sure you don't go - crazier."

Tony smirked.

* * *

The sun set slowly over the deck of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier as Tony stared out the small windows on the side of his transport craft. The gleam on the water illuminated the prow, and the huge spinning blades that would lift it into the sky were only barely visible below the surface. Very slowly the deck approached, and Tony sighed in relief, stretching his legs.

"Seven hours - you'd think we'd have a faster way by now. I'll have to do something about that," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Halfway around the world in a tin can, and they don't even have food on board? A travesty."

_"Please sit, sir - you might get hurt,"_ the pilot said through a crackling radio.

"Hidden cameras - joy!" Tony walked to the back of the plane while ignoring the warnings. "Is Fury here, at least? I'd rather not wait any longer than I have to. The seats on this carrier are _terribly _designed from an ergonomic standpoint, you know..."

_"__Director Fury __ is present, sir."_

The transport slowly dropped onto the deck, briefly shuddering, before the hatch opened with a loud clang. There, leaning against the side of the craft, was Clint Barton, Hawkeye. Though he had left his bow elsewhere, his tensed muscles betrayed his readiness. He waved vaguely as Tony disembarked. "Stark."

"I'm not going to attack, you know." Tony said conversationally, eyebrows raised. "What's with the smarmy grimace you've got there? Did someone prank you again? Put chili sauce in your marmalade, what?"

"It's nothing," Clint responded, straightening, and he shrugged. "I suppose we're the only ones around right now, so it's nice to see you." He smirked.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. Because we got along so brilliantly in New York. As I remember, you spent more time actually fighting us than doing anything useful. I'm pretty sure you were more of a hassle than _Loki_ was, half the time." He smirked, and raised an eyebrow. "You're fine, I assume?"

"Yes, I feel fine," Clint agreed. "A little under the weather, I suppose, but that is what you get. You and I should talk at some point. There's a few things you should really know about."

Tony nodded distractedly. "Sorry about the - food thing, again. I didn't know you'd get diarrhea," he said as he dusted off his pinstripe suit. "I never had that kind of trouble, so I guess people with weaker stomachs just fall below my radar. The Shawarma seemed like a good deal at the time - but even Thor whined, and I think he has titanium for a gut."

"Whatever you say, Stark."

Tony sighed. "Don't bother warning people about the metal detectors," he added glibly, striding into the Helicarrier without another word. He whistled easily as he ascended the stairs, following Hawkeye. He saw no evidence of the Hulk's fight with Thor in the hangar bays that they passed, and he waved casually at a few guards. "I could barely see the damage on the prop - not a bad repair job, actually. Though I could've helped with that."

"Our engineers are the very best," Clint noted, and he frowned. "Why did you remove your arc reactor, exactly? Symbolism?"

"That, and personal reasons," Tony answered, shrugging. "Finally had the tech to make it possible, and I figured that being dependent on technology to keep my heart ticking was a bit risky. So now I'm one-hundred percent human again." He smiled slightly at the fib. "I left my suit at home, actually. Well - the partial one I have. I'm working on that."

"I'm sure," Clint agreed, gesturing onwards. "Think about what you've been doing, Tony, and make logical deductions. You're good at those." He smirked. "And please - try not to freak out too much. It's going to be all right."

Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow "That's Mr. Stark to you - and what are you babbling about? Should I be worried?" He turned slightly when he heard Clint's footsteps stop, and paused in surprise. There was nobody behind him at all. "Clint?" The hallway was empty.

"What the hell...?" Tony blinked, then reversed directions, until he reached an intersection; two guards were there; he remembered passing them. "Hey - neither of you happened to see Barton pass by here, right? I must have missed him in the shuffle..."

One guard frowned. "Agent Barton? I just saw _you _pass by, sir," he said. "Isn't Barton on leave, anyway? I'm pretty sure he went to visit the mainland, spend some time with whatever relatives he's got..."

The second guard grunted in agreement. "Haven't seen him in days."

Tony hesitated, staring for a long moment, then sighed as he rubbed his eyes. "...Right. Could you point me towards Fury, at least?" He shook his head, trying to run back the encounter with Clint, and trying to figure out what the hell happened. "I have an appointment."

"Director Fury is on the flight deck, if I'm not mistaken," the first guard said. "Wasn't he supposed to meet _you_ there, sir?" He glanced to his colleague helplessly. "Why are you all the way down here, alone?"

Tony swallowed, then turned. "I must've gotten lost somewhere. I guess I'll go find him, then. I think I know the way out." He headed off, refusing to look back. Chills ran down Tony's back as he tried to retrace every move he'd made since he left his transport. _Try not to freak out too much__._Had he been hallucinating the entire way down here? Had his hallucination told him not to get upset over it? How did that even work?

He shook his head harshly. _It's just_ g_hosts in the machine. Just ghosts._

His eyes glowed a serene blue for but a moment.


	4. HP - Most Ancient 1

**Most Ancient**

Harry Potter

_Summary : Dealing with an alternate end to Book 1, Harry activates the Philosopher's Stone, and in the ensuing confusion, ends up at Nicholas Flamel's place - who is rather different from the popular conception of him. Horcruxes and the heart of magic and dark magic in particular are relevant._

* * *

**Chapter 1 - Spillover**

The world shone with unearthly light as it turned below Harry's feet, so very slowly. Its churning insides made him slightly queasy as he stared down at the ground, unable to look away from the spectacle. How bizarre it was to realize that the world was spinning, that he was on its surface, stuck to it only faintly, separated from fire by a mere few miles of rock, below which the inferno spread out in all directions.

It was terrifying to take a step, since it seemed like he could fall in at any moment. The ground was solid, but if felt as if it did not have to be, as if a single thought could liquify the earth beneath his feet and sent him screaming into the abyss. He looked back to his hand, to the brightly shining stone. He was not sure when he had grabbed it from Quirrel's dying hands, when he had taken it up into his hands. It felt like hours ago, like an eternity. He had intended to keep it safe, but all had made way for this alien sensation.

Quirrell was dead, Harry knew. Voldemort had left, his spirit fleeing the castle as quickly as it could. The same could not be said for his tortured host. Quirrell had stared at Harry for a long time after his death, hovering over his body with disbelief etched across his face and some trace of fear plainly evident. A ghost, perhaps - a spirit - though it seemed as if it should not have been visible at all.

Whatever had kept him around, though, had not lasted for very long. When Harry had reached out to him, curious to see if he could touch the translucent echo, the man had simply vanished into thin air. He wondered if he was supposed to see the unearthtly glow that stole him away, the strange glimmer of _differentness_ that had no colour he could describe.

"I'm getting tired," Harry muttered with a certainty that he could not quite place. His feet were firmly on solid ground again, the stone of the castle between him and the flames of the deep. His uncanny awareness went with it, the constant feeling that everything was less than real. The world shrank, and his head felt very full, as if all the strange thoughts he had were stuffed away in there, out of sight. Still, an edge remained, some iota of understanding.

"_Harry_!"

He looked up, surprised to see Professor Dumbledore gazing at him with a dumbfouded expression. No, that was not quite right – the man's eyes were fixed on his hand, the hand that held the Philosopher's Stone. It still emitted bright light, though not as much as before, and with a pale yellow instead of - the other colour. Its glow making his skin look awfully pallid, and he understood Dumbledore's concern. He glanced to Quirrell. "Ah... I can explain."

The headmaster looked at the crumpled form of the former professor, partially charred as it was, and shook his head in dismay. Then, his eyes returned to the stone. "Voldemort was here - and now he is not. He departed, then?"

"He was possessing Professor Quirrell," Harry answered easily, and a chill ran down his back when he realized he did not feel anything about that fact – and he definitely should. Thankfully, his being in shock was probably expected, and he ignored the queasy worry that ignited in his gut, muted as it was. "He fled when he burned up." Harry added as he raised the stone. "He couldn't touch me, and then I grabbed this..."

Dumbledore frowned as he held out his hand. "Could you give me that?"

Harry handed over the rock without a second thought, glad to be rid of it. The instant he let go, its light flickered out, and a strange warmth went with it, though Harry was sure it was something beyond the temperature that he was feeling betreft of. It was more like a calmness in the air, a certain tranquility in his mind that departed. Dumbledore looked at the lumpy object in puzzlement.

"We can't leave him here, can we?" Harry wondered as he looked down on his victim. He had killed someone – unknowingly, perhaps, but still – and honestly he still felt nothing at all. He could not even work up anger against him for luring him into a trap, for attempting murder. Nervously, he turned his eyes away from the body, and refused to meet Dumbledore's gaze.

"I will take the Professor along," Dumbledore said in a subdued voice. "I think it is time I bring you to the Hospital Wing. You look like you could collapse at any moment, my boy."

"I haven't been so awake in years," Harry answered honestly, and he turned to the door. "Let's go."

Dumbledore did not say much as he followed Harry out. His hand was clasped around the dull Philosopher's Stone. Not quit as tightly as his hold on the Elder Wand, though; his grip on that was tight enough that his knuckles turned white.

* * *

Harry sat before Professor Dumbledore's desk with a vacant expression, though he occasionally glanced to Fawkes in the corner, who stared back with old, weary eyes. He had been introduced to the fiery bird only a few moments before, but already he knew it would be its burning day, soon – the feathers on his crest were turning a vague brown, or were falling out entirely. He was not sure exactly how he knew what a burning day _was,_ however.

Professor Dumbledore had moved to a small fireplace the moment they entered his office, and spent some time speaking to a person on the other end. Harry wondered why, but figured that he would find out soon enough. He looked curiously at his bandaged hand again, at the thin scarring that he had apparently received in that room wih the mirror of Erised, with Voldemort. Sighing, he stood up, rubbinng his neck tiredly as he tried to remember exactly what happened down there, with the man who killed his parents. And why he felt _nothing_ about it. He tried for some anger, which he knew he should have had, or perhaps some fear. Nothing. He idly wondered if he was still in shock, but he doubted that, as well.

"What do you say, Fawkes?" Harry murmured as he stepped closer, reaching out and scratching the bird under his beak. The Phoenix warbled contentedly in return, reaching into the touch, and Harry involuntarily smiled. "Am I going to be alright, do you reckon?"

The Phoenix looked up at him with its old eyes, and Harry felt, for a moment, like something very eerie looked at him, something impossibly ancient. How old _was_ Fawkes, anyway? Did Phoenixes really ever die, or were they just reborn, forever and ever? Was it as old as the earth itself, springing from the lava flows at the beginning, now remaining deep below?

For a moment, it felt like the ground could fall away again. "An old bird for an old man," Harry said lightly. "It fits, I suppose."

Harry looked up and was a little surprised to see Professor Dumbledore staring at him, with a mix of concern and amusement quite visible on his face; he wasn't usually this expressive, Harry noted. The old man glanced at Fawkes, who was enjoying the attention, and sighed. "Well, my boy, I have called for the best expert I know, to see if he can help me understand what happened." He reached into his robe, and retrieved the Philosopher's Stone, gleaming dully. "The man who created _this _little miracle_._"

"Nicholas Flamel," Harry observed. "His name was on your chocolate frog card."

"You did do the thing properly, didn't you?" Dumbledore replied, though his smile seemed a little forced. "He gave the stone to me to protect, to keep hidden, and I failed. Not only did someone attempt to retrieve it from within Gringotts, which has considerable defences of its own, but he came to take it from here, and very nearly succeeded. We have you to think for that." He sighed. "I believe that Nicholas will take the stone back, or have it destroyed."

"Why would you call him here, though?" Harry wondered. "Why not take the stone to him?"

Dumbledore frowned. "How much do you remember about what happened, Harry? When I first arrived, in that last room, you were..." He shook his head ruefully. "I do not really understand it, I admit. Nicholas should know – he made that stone, after all. Its workings are a mystery to me."

"Could you give it to me, for a moment?" Harry wondered, petting Fawkes' crest as he moved back to his seat. "I'm curious if it still reacts, now that I have recovered some of my strength. I grasped it at a moment of stress, before."

"I wonder if you hear yourself speak," Dumbledore said slowly, as he reluctantly held out his hand, with the stone upon it. "You don't sound eleven years old, Harry. In fact, by your tone, your inflection, you sound very much like... someone much older." He sighed. "Very well. Touch it, but only for a moment."

Hary reached out. The moment his finger brushed the surface, it lit up again with that odd, ethereal glow, and colours exploded. Fawkes squawked for a moment, staring at the light with sudden intensity. The world fell away, like the paint on a canvas, and all that remained of the Phoenix was a brilliant spark, a burst of elemental fire suspended in mid-air, given life and a voice by some magic that Harry could barely fathom. Lesser sparks were all around, magic made manifest, and in the vastness above him he could see he stars, even in the middle of the day, even from inside these walls, unforgiving specks of light from distant suns. The sun itself - Harry stared at it in awe.

"What do you see, Harry?" Dumbledore asked from somewhere far away, and Harry slowly turned towards him, feeling as though he moved a vast distance to get there, despiting staying put - he could feel himself wheeling through reality on the skin of the Earth. He almost cringed back when he noticed the scars on Dumbledore – his wand arm was covered with them, almost raw, and his eyes seemed troubled with terror.

"I..." Harry removed his hand, and slowly the scars faded, and the world solidified. "I... don't know what I see." He looked worryingly down at the stone, once again dull. "What exactly is it?"

"You should know, it's the – "

"I know what it is called," Harry snapped irritably, and he rejoiced in the fact that he could feel annoyed again. "What _is _it? The stories tell of gold and immortality, but... _that._ That's not immortality, that's..." He could not put it into words.

"There is only one person who could answer that, I believe," Dumbledore said, just as the fireplace in the back of his office burst into green flames. "And here he is."

"Nicholas," Dumbledore said with a small smile as he straightened. Harry glanced past the tall headmaster to catch sight of a shorter person, though still taller than himself. Nicholas Flamel, the legendary creator of the Philosopher's Stone, over six-hundred years old. The man peered over his glasses with an intensity that was startling.

"Yes, yes, it is good to see you again, my boy," Flamel murmured, running a hand through his long hair, a light brown streaked with white. It was clear that even with the Stone, age was very slowly catching up with him. Though the man's face betrayed that he laughed often, lined as it was from centuries of living, his expression tolerated no disagreement. "If even half of what you told me is true..."

"Let us not be hasty..." Dumbledore said warningly, turning to Harry, looking a little spooked by the fact that his student was waiting patiently by the desk. "The stone is safe, I assure you." He reached forward, offering the seemingly innocent rock to its creator. "Here."

Flamel grabbed the rock quickly, slipping it into his pocket with the same gesture. His dark eyes sought out Harry's. "It reacted to you, did it? It sparked?"

"Um, I suppose so," Harry said hesitantly, and before he could react, he was grasped by the chin by the surprisingly spry multi-centenarian. A gleam of intrigue and a flash of mirth appeared on the old man's face for an instant, before he released Harry again.

"Albus – I'm taking this one home," Flamel announced, nodding confidently.

"Nicholas..."

The ancient man stuck up a finger. "Albus Dumbledore," he said sharply. "I was there when you were still dirtying your diapers and making pretty pictures with materials that were _certainly _not meant for them. I _still _know more about alchemy and the Stone that you do, even after your long studies. When I say I'm taking someone with me, I have _very_ good reasons._" _He grasped Harry by the wrist and pulled him up. "Come, to the floo. Can't waste time, or it'll be too late to save what's left."

"...Too late?" Harry wondered, and he blinked at fuzziness that was creeping in. "What do you mean, too late?"

Flamel glanced pointedly at Dumbledore. "Look, Albus – you trusted me, once. Do the same, now, because I'm telling the truth. Either I'm taking him, or he's dying right here." He glowered. "Choose quickly."

Dumbledore sighed. "If you insist. I will escort Mr. Potter-"

Flamel scoffed. "I don't let just anyone into my new home, Albus, as you well know. You remember what happened to the last one, don't you? I remember that you had a lot to do with that, actually." He sniffed. "And now – this. I asked you to protect the stone, and what do you do? You let it get nearly stolen – _twice._ I thought once was a fluke, but now... No - I will make sure that Harry here forgets the location, but you shan't even enter."

"I could not have predicted what-"

"I _could_," Flamel answered coolly. He sighed, and his expression softened a little. "Perhaps we will discuss it soon. Having Perenelle away from the house always makes me antsy, and getting called in for something like this is - very irregular. I'll see if I can arrange for a get-together so we can discuss what went wrong. I wouldn't want to stay in a row with my whippersnapper student." He smirked. "First, though, I need to get this boy to my place, before his brain starts dribbling out of his ears."

"I suppose your house is among the best-protected there are," Dumbledore agreed. "But Nicholas, he needs to get back to his family for the summer. The protections I put in place rely on his continued stay, there. He needs that safety."

"I will not take any longer than necessary," Flamel replied easily. "You know me, Albus - I'm an honourable man. I'll see that your boy comes home."

Dumbledore sighed, and nodded resignedly. "Go then – but inform me of any developments, the moments they happen. By Patronus, if you will."

Flamel nodded. "Come along then, Mr. Potter. Don't be tardy now, can't have you vomit on the Headmaster's nice carpet." He grasped Harry firmly by the upper arm, sending a last look to Dumbledore as he dragged the youth to the floo with a surprising amount of strength. "Hopefully, he'll be back within days – but you never know with alchemical mishaps."

Dumbledore grimaced. "Are you certain I cannot help? Hogwarts has a very good Hospital Wing."

The ancient figure scoffed. "Unless you know how the _Philosopher's Stone _works, no. Let's discuss things when your wonderboy isn't on the brink of insanity," he replied jovially, and with a wavy gesture he sprayed floo powder from somewhere inside his jacket, after which he dragged Harry into the green flames. Everything vanished into a swirling mess of fireplaces and a sickening dizziness.

* * *

"Come along, then," Flamel exclaimed as he stretched out, suddenly looking much taller than he had before – in fact, he now rivalled Dumbledore's height. Harry followed the eccentric figure without a protest, trying desperately to keep his stomach under control, and found himself in a long and gloomy corridor with green and black wall-hangings. Harry was not worried - even now his feelings seemed muted, far away. He looked at things with a coolly indifferent air, and it was only his knowledge of how unusual that was which kept him from hobbling along like an unthinking robot.

For a while it seemed like the two kept descending further into the earth, but the sloping hallway ended quite suddenly with a small square room, maybe four meters to a side, containing only a few large bookcases, a small desk, and a single old chair that had seen better days. Flamel seemed unconcerned as he gestured to the latter, which stood right in the middle of the room. "Well, have a seat – I'll get you something to drink. I think you'll need it."

"What's going on...?" Harry inquired, but Flamel vanished out the next door. Harry deliberated for a few moments, but he could not find any reason to suddenly stop protesting now, and sank onto the little rickety chair with a sigh. His mind whirled with confusion, where before there had only been blank observation, a clarity that he now lacked.

Flamel returned within moments, carrying a glass of water. "Right, I might have slightly exaggerated matters to Albus, so he wouldn't intrude, but you can probably sense something is off in that head of yours," He old man smiled slightly. "I'll need you to make an oath not to reveal any secrets though, before we do. The Philosopher's Stone is a bit of a work of art, you see – can't have anyone find out."

Harry nodded slowly, and his head ached. "Alright... that makes sense."

Flamel smiled. "What I need you do is hold out your arm, yes. This isn't quite the strongest vow around, but I think that insanity is bad enough a punishment, don't you? Death is so messy, not to mention unpleasant. Now..." Flamel produced his wand, a spindly black thing, and tapped their locked arms. "Repeat after me: _I swear never to tell what secrets I learn from the one to whom I make this vow, lest I lose my mind and soul."_

Harry had already recited the line back before he caught up with what it meant, but he couldn't muster a response beyond dull surprise, mild puzzlement. The spell, the vow, seared into his arm like a line of fire, like someone sliced through his arm and poured salt into the wound, and for a moment he felt like he would cry out. It stopped as quickly as it started, however, leaving only a sickly, oily feeling behind, and a thin line of irritated skin. Flamel backed away, and Harry shivered at the man's expression; it was not at all pleasant.

"I apologize that there is no friendly way to do that," the old man muttered then, looking suddenly apologetic, and he offered the glass he brought. "The aching should stop within minutes, and then we can get started. Here, drink something, it should help your stomach settle down."

Harry reached out hesitantly, then chugged down the water in one go. The instant he did, calm descended over him, and he slumped into his seat. His eyes lost focus as they stared straight ahead, and his mind went fuzzy and indistinct. For a moment he felt like he should feel betrayed, but that feeling faded as well.

"My, you really are suggestible right now, aren't you? I figured I'd need to compel you into that one. Free will's suppressed pretty far, then." Flamel chuckled softly. "Well, I can guess whose little dirty secret _you _are, hmm? Interesting concept, a living host, though I wonder if he thought of all the implications," he murmured, crouching before Harry and peering into his unfocused eyes. "So... now that the potion's had a few moments to do its work, what is your name?"

_"_Ha-" Harry's mouth went to make sounds of its own, and Harry couldn't do anything to stop it – the compulsion to answer was suddenly overwhelming. "Harry – R- Ha –" He frowned. "_Har_-"

"I should have guessed this would happen, with _that_ thing intruding," Flamel murmured to himself, and he stepped back,tapping the floor with his boot. A rush of sound and light suddenly erupted as the floor and ceiling glowed red with intricate symbols, carved into the very stone. A runic net, Harry thought, and he wondered where he recognized it from. Flamel nodded contentedly. "Let's try that again, with the ambiguities squashed. What is your name, boy?"

Harry answered neutrally: "Harry James Potter."

"There, that's better." Flamel smiled. "Now, let's get to the meat. What did you do with the Philosopher's Stone?" He raised his hand, holding the object before him. "This. Do you know why it shines for you?"

"No."

Flamel shrugged. "I suppose that makes sense. Do you know whether Albus had any idea as to the reasons?"

"No."

Flamel smiled dangerously. "That's good. Very good. If he did, he probably would not have contacted me, I imagine," he murmured as he paced the edge of the glowing red circle. It flared momentarily, but seemed to tolerate the new occupant. "Do you know _what_ you are? What hides behind that scar of yours? What dark power nestled within the crevices of a wounded soul?"

Harry didn't answer that question. After a little while he drawled, "No."

"Guess that one was too vague, eh? Well, you are just eleven..." Flamel raised his hand. "Do you know what it is, in truth? This object, the Philosopher's Stone? Do you know why it is more than a rock, why it can do the impossible?"

"No."

"_Good_. Consider that a _secret, _as is all else you see within these walls." Flamel stepped forward, into the red ring that flared angrily with light. "Now – the Veritaserum solution courses through you, but you are not alone in there, are you? Come out, little remnant, little stowaway... I believe that you have hidden there for long enough, and I would see what this newfangled Dark Lord has fashioned for himself."

Flamel reached out with the Stone, and touched the scar with it. Harry's head felt like it exploded with pain, and blood gushed down his face as a scream echoed through the room – but it was not Harry's; Harry slumped, transfixed by what bubbled from his forehead, writhing in anguish, deformed and crumbling. Some _thing _emerged from his face, searing and frothing.

"_You will not destroy me!" _It screeched. "_I will endure!"_

Flamel did not look impressed in the slightest as he prodded the thing. "This is it? This is all the great and mighty Lord Voldemort was capable of producing? This desecrated sliver, no more? You cannot even fully manifest, can you, even if you wished to?" He shook his head in disgust.

The spectre of Voldemort only writhed and Harry twitched in revulsion as he could practically feel it threading through his skull, horrible tendrils reaching inward, intertwined with what should be there. Quite suddenly, Harry understood – the cool carelessness, the sudden politeness where he had never shown any before, his complete lack of concern. _It was him._Voldemort was _in his head._

"Get. It. Out." Harry hissed under his breath, the best he could do at the moment while the horrible potion still coursed through his veins and no question was asked, while that _thing_ still hung from his forehead like a monstrous zit. _"Kill it!"_

"_No! I will kill him if you try!" _the thing replied, screeching.

Flamel looked a little amused, then. He dismissed the deformed Voldemort's ravings, his eyes finding Harry's, who was keeping himself as still as possible. Harry started at the look; where before there had been only darkness in Flamel's gaze, there were now bright yellow sclera, almost like a snake's, and their terrifying gaze pinned Harry down. "There is yet enough solution to work for a while longer. Do you fear death, boy?"

Harry stayed silent, considering the question, but he was not sure how to answer. Did he?

The old man smirked for a moment, and his eyes found the creature again. "What about you, perversion? Remnant?"

The shard of Voldemort hissed in agreement, almost jubilant at such an easy question._ "Yes. YES. Yesyesyes."_

"I thought as much. Good." Flamel looked at Harry with that intense gaze, and they spoke of certainty. "Do not resist. If you resist, you die," he ordered, as he reached out with his wand, touching the scar. Harry slackened his grip, and closed his eyes.

The screeching thing violently protested. _"No! I will kill him!"_ Its feeble resistance was ignored.

"_Avada Kedavra," _Harry whispered at the same time as Flamel, as if in echo, unsure of what the words meant. The world fell away to darkness.


End file.
